All Roads Lead To Amaranthine
by burningmagnesium
Summary: Basically, Superwholock set in Thedas. Maker help us all.
1. Introduction

The Thaw had begun.

The archdemon was dead, and the darkspawn horde fled into the wilds, cast into disarray. The Hero of Ferelden took her place as Warden-Commander in Amaranthine, and soon after defeated another darkspawn threat in the form of The Architect. Speaking darkspawn disappeared, and Ferelden was finally at peace. Or so it seemed.

The year after the end of the Fifth Blight began with unease. Darkspawn sightings spiked, and caravans went missing not just in Ferelden, but all over Thedas. Followers of the Chantry whispered about the Maker's wrath, and another Blight, while people in the countryside began arming themselves against the unknown. The Ferelden Wardens were too few in number to even begin to face the menace at hand.

So Warden-Commander Brosca sent letters to the corners of the map, asking for help from fellow Wardens, and for new recruits to replenish the people lost in the Assault on Amaranthine.

Amaranthine became a crossroads, the place of many meetings, and a series of strange newcomers traveled towards it, called to duty and adventure.


	2. Castiel

It wasn't supposed to happen this way.

The sky was dark, a blackness extending outwards, imprinted only by the shadows of mountains in the distance and the fractured network of bare tree branches stretching above the worn road. The sounds of Lake Celestine, the rasping ebb and flow of waves, could be heard just beyond the line of trees to the left. The caravan—made up of a half dozen templars, two mages and a single horse-drawn wagon—traveled by guttering torchlight around the lake, towards the Circle of Magi at Montsimmard.

High-pitched screams sounded in the distance, and the people of the caravan fell still. The horse began to panic, its fierce jostling threatened to tip the cart sideways. One of the templars cut the poor animal free, but before anyone could go after it, a low grumble reverberated through the ground. Castiel stumbled, and a sick unease settled in his gut.

Without much other warning, the templar at the front of the line was tackled by a hulking shadow; his gurgles could barely be heard under the crunch of his armor folding like paper. The other templars jumped into action, and when Castiel tried to grab his staff from pile of goods piled inside the wagon, the templar nearest to him kicked at the back of his knees, toppling him over. Manacles clicked around his hands, trapping him against the spoke of one of the wagon wheels. Castiel's throat worked to speak, but the sight of shadows emerging from the forest dried up his well of words. Darkspawn rushed the caravan. But the Blight was over, wasn't it? There shouldn't be darkspawn this far west. They're supposed all be back underground. The roads were supposed to be safe. The objections circled Castiel's head, as if the facts would make the monsters before him disappear.

Shrieks seemed to claw their way out of the earth, and long, racking arms tore at the beleaguered templars. A dozen or so hurlocks and genlocks surrounded the remaining five templars, and when Castiel looked for his fellow mage, all he could see was her body, prone near the front of the caravan. Blood arched from a nearby cluster of action, and painted Castiel's face and the front of his robes in a muddy red. He gagged, and cringed as the monsters moved closer. He pulled at his manacles until the metal cut into his wrist, but by the time a shriek came straight for him, his attempts toward escape had come to nothing.

The first blow landed across his shoulder, and he threw a kick at the creature with enough force to make it flinch, but not by much. The feeling of fire and storms radiated out from his wound, and he knew he wouldn't have the strength to lash out again. The shriek raised its other scythe-like hand to gut him, but then a flaming arrow pierced through its head. It fell backwards, like a wooden lump.

And then other shadows charged the line of darkspawn, armored men and women emblazoned with crests of griffons. Grey Wardens. Castiel's head went woozy with blood loss and relief. He blinked, and realized the world had gone quiet. No more darkspawn. No more templars.

"Help," Castiel uttered, and his knees buckled.

"Oi, we've got a live one!" one of the Wardens shouted.

Castiel slumped to the ground when the manacles were cut away. Someone rolled him onto his back, and they hissed at the sight of his wound. "Maker's breath." Castiel couldn't see his shoulder, and he didn't want to. He tried to keep breathing past the boiled air in his lungs.

"Captain! Can you come look at this?" another voice shouted. There was some rustling about, and the sound of soft-soled boots approached.

A blurry face floated into Castiel's line of vision. A woman with dark skin, and a small gash at her temple. A kind face, with intelligent eyes. "Hello, my name is Martha. I'm a Grey Warden. We're here to help. What's your name?"

He couldn't remember for a long moment, but then said, "Castiel."

"Castiel. Please stay still as possible, I'm going to try and get a better look at your shoulder and try to stop the bleeding," she said, and her calm demeanor somehow dulled the panic that began to rise up in him. But then there was pressure and pain, and the fires picked up again, and in the distant corner of her mind he realized both that Martha spoke in the common tongue, not Orlesian, and that the shouts he now heard were from his own throat.

"Castiel," Martha was saying when he settled back into himself. Her face was grave, and he just wanted her to make the pain go away. "I'm sorry, but I think you've contracted the taint."

He didn't respond, but met her gaze.

"You know what this means," she said.

He felt like he didn't have the strength to nod. "I'm going to die."

Martha took a deep breath and then replied, "Or you could undergo the Joining, and become a Grey Warden. It could give you more time."

Castiel's head began to throb, and he squeezed his eyes shut for a long moment, waiting for waves of pain to pass. "I—" he started speaking through clenched teeth.

"You still have time," she assured him. "We'll take you back to our stronghold near Montsimmard. You can make your decision there."

Castiel let himself go after that pronouncement, and his mind fell into unconsciousness.


	3. John and Sherlock

Living quietly after the maleficar uprising and the Battle of Denerim hadn't changed the nightmares that plagued John's sleep. He thought they would eventually go away. He thought that helping to rebuild Kinloch Hold would help. He thought a great many things, but he knew that staying in the Circle was slowly killing him. Inaction was his greatest fear, but even as he pulled bodies from rooms and took over teaching lessons, restlessness followed him. Senior Enchanter Wynne kept telling him to give it time, but by now John knew he couldn't deal with this stasis much longer.

Moreover, John didn't emerge from the Blight unscathed. Blight wolves attacked him when he and other survivors fled Ostagar, and he hadn't walked without a limp since. He was lucky to have survived with his life, but his constant need for support began to wear away at his patience. The tower, once home, was now a windowless prison. He feared for his sanity.

So Irving sent him to Amaranthine. Because John needed a change in scenery and because Warden-Commander Brosca needed mages. All of her initial mage recruits either died or disappeared, which seemed a better fate to John than sitting around listening to bratty apprentices complain about their angst topic of the week. Amaranthine was a good option. Besides, John wasn't going to be a Warden. He would be going in the capacity of a teacher. Not even the Wardens were desperate enough to induct a crippled mage into the order.

In a not-so-strange twist of events, Irving sent another mage with John—a newly harrowed, supposed half-elf named Sherlock. They hadn't been in contact before, but John had heard about Sherlock from other mages. He was supposed to be acidic, irritating, reverent, and, most of all, brilliant. John looked at his journey with Sherlock as a challenge. A 'let's see if we can deal with him' sort of challenge.

To add to the intrigue, rumors circulated over Sherlock's possible involvement in Ser Cullen's transfer to the Free Marches. Some mages whispered that the templar had some sort of romantic attachment with one of the mages, and Sherlock managed to reveal the connection on a whim with Knight-Commander Greagoir in earshot. No one knew how Sherlock found out about the affair, but it was a source of interest for the apprentices. It was difficult for John to wholly believe that this was why Cullen was sent away, since the templar was unstable after Uldred's rebellion, but John wanted to see if the rumors had any grounds to stand upon.

He wasn't sad to leave Kinloch Hold, though he would miss a few of the people. As he reflected, it just wasn't the same place he grew up in, and he wasn't the same person who left all those months ago to fight darkspawn for the king. So many people died, both during the Blight and in the uprising, and when he returned from Denerim, the tower felt like a shell or a tomb. The one bright spot was a dwarven scholar, Dagna, who was permitted to study magic with the help of the Hero of Ferelden. John would miss her and her optimism, especially in the face of such dark times.

"I'll come and visit you," she promised. "When I'm finished with my thesis on lyrium vapors. I'll bring you a copy. Now that I'm on the surface, there's no way that I'm not going to travel!"

He smiled at her enthusiasm, and hoped she wasn't just another person spouting empty dreams and promises.

"She's not as much of an idiot as most dwarves," Sherlock drawled, breaking John from his thoughts. A dip in the road jostled the cart they rode in, and John gripped the bench to keep from falling over. "Intellectual curiosity can take one a long way."

"Sorry, who?"

"The scholar from Orzammar." Sherlock barely even moved when the cart went over bumps. It was this fact that made John almost believe the half-elf rumors. There was something willowy and composed about Sherlock, but he was still a bit of a berk, judging by their stilted conversation.

"She has a name," John said. And why in the Void is Sherlock bringing up Dagna now? John made no indication that he was thinking about her, and didn't realize Sherlock was aware that they were friends.

"Thank you, that's new information to me." Sherlock's blue eyes sparked with challenge.

"You're quite welcome," John countered.

"You do know your limp is, as they say, all in your head, correct?"

John wondered if it was normal for Sherlock to jump topics so easily, but seeing as this was their first conversation beyond their cold introduction that morning, he couldn't be sure. "Sorry?" he asked for a second time in just as many minutes.

"You have a limp. It's not real."

John frowned.

"It's not an unheard of occurrence among veterans," Sherlock replied with a shrug.

John just stared at him, not sure how to respond to the claim that his persistent reminder of the Blight may be a product of his head. Maker, wouldn't that explain a thing or two?

Sherlock didn't seem to notice the impact of his words. "Are you planning on joining the Wardens?" he wondered, idly. John was surprised at the sudden turn to small talk.

"No. You?"

"I'll consider it."

This came as a surprise to John, who assumed Sherlock was another recruit. Before John could ask, Sherlock turned to stare out at the landscape moving past them in a slow crawl. Something in his expression was closed off, and John kept his silence.

Neither of them spoke again for the rest of their journey that day.


	4. Rose

Rose was called many things. Knife-ears, bitch, whore, and dirty elf were the most common. Yes, her ears were pointed since she was an _elf_, for the love of Andraste, but her personal hygiene was actually better than most humans', and what she did or didn't do behind closed doors was no one's business but her own.

The hahrens always said that alienages provided protection for elves, but Rose knew better. Living in alienages her whole life hadn't prevented abuse, but she was grateful that those who knew her best called her clever, scrappy, kind, and brave. Somehow, despite the fact that she lived in the worst of places, and seen her friends and family fall to plague, starvation, and the caprices of humans, she remained unbroken.

Rose was born and raised in the Denerim alienage. The only reason why she didn't die there like so many other city elves during the Battle of Denerim was because of her guardian—spirit of the Fade who watched over her, and was her constant companion.

Rose was a mage, but she hadn't yet taken a single step into any Circle. She knew what those places were like, especially for elves. No, that wasn't an option for her. There were tiers of freedom, and Circle life would take all her freedom from her. Rose knew this.

Besides, she wasn't a threat to others, not like those power-hungry blood mages that seemed to flourish under harsh Circle settings. No, no indeed, such a place was not for Rose. Sure, that made her an apostate, but she didn't care much for the label. It made her sound vicious, a wild animal, and she was far from that. Headstrong and cheeky at times, yes, but not malicious. By no means. She knew what she wanted in life, and she knew how to get it, but if it was at the expense of others? Her spirit frowned on that, and so did she.

And her spirit? He wasn't dangerous either. The Chantry had something wrong. Not all Fade inhabitants thirsted for blood. Not all possessions resulted in abominations. Rose's companion was happy just to be along for the ride. He told her as much several times.

Ultimately, the spirit had always done more good than harm. He was the one who told her to hightail it out of Denerim before the darkspawn attacked. She escaped only hours before the first wave of the horde hit the city, and went north. This was how she ended up in Amaranthine, working as a barmaid at the Crown and Lion. It wasn't glamorous work, but very few elves lived glamorous lives, apostate or not. It was safe, and that was what mattered. She was safe, though her spirit sometimes rumbled in the back of her head. "New people," he said, "will be arriving. Interesting new people, yes, but be careful."

Rose laughed at his warning. "When am I not?"


	5. Sam and Dean

Sam was unhappy, but that wasn't unusual as of late. His boots squelched with rainwater and mud, and his threadbare cloak did little more than weigh him down with all the water it absorbed. His hair pressed in limp strands over his forehead, and made him feel a bit like a barbarian vagrant. His second-hand armor was heavy on his shoulders, and the twin swords strapped to his back were probably on the brink of rusting away.

The torrential downpour limited his visibility, but he could still see the outline of his older brother plowing forward. Sam worried about whether they were even on the path anymore, the mud came indiscriminate hours ago, and for all they knew they were walking on not-road mud, and would become hopelessly lost.

"Dean," he said, shoulders lax. "Can we stop soon?" If they stopped maybe they could wait the rain out, and get their bearings again.

"Sammy," his brother's voice had an edge of warning. "If you want us to get there _ever_ we're going to have to keep going."

"It's raining. If we die from illness before we get there, then what's the point? Are we even still on the road?" Sam countered. They'd been walking for six days straight, their horse had been squashed by an orge a couple months ago, and since the end of the Blight all they could do was not get killed by the fleeing darkspawn horde. Sam was keeping track in the back of his head—days without darkspawn contact. After nearly six months of daily contact with the horde, the past few weeks were eerily quiet. Sam was uncomfortable, but Dean even more so. It made him irritable, and Sam didn't think walking the rain was making morale any better.

Dean made a sound of frustration, though he looked about as bedraggled as Sam felt. He didn't respond, and continued trudging along. Sam followed, and in a moment of serendipity, they arrived at a fork in the road, with a tall wooden signpost. One arrow pointed towards the capital, the other back towards the Bannorn. Sam heaved a sigh of relief.

"See, we are on the road," Dean said.

"We could still die," Sam grumbled. "I was done three days ago, Dean."

"Fine. You win. We'll stop at the next town we come across. Andraste's ass."

Sam wanted to kill darkspawn as much as Dean, but he didn't want to be reckless. Not unduly reckless. He believed it was a sign that neither of them had died yet, either through the blight corruption or through other wounds. The Maker had plans for them, Sam believed, though he couldn't tell Dean for fear of being called an idiot. Sam loved his brother, but sometimes Dean was an ass.

"Denerim shouldn't be far, judging by the sign. We could stop there," Sam conceded.

Dean flashed a licentious smile at Sam. "Think The Pearl survived the battle?"

"We'll be lucky if we can scrounge up enough money for an inn, Dean," Sam chastised.

"Way to ruin a man's dreams."

"Let's just get there first, all right?"


	6. Rose 2

She didn't know why there were templars in Amaranthine. There are three of them, off duty, drinking ale at the corner table. Even without their armor, Rose knew what they were. Why were they here, so far from the Circle?

"Because there are mages," supplied her spirit. "Templars are wary of Grey Wardens; they think of them as harborers of maleifcar. Sometimes they are, actually."

"Why do you know this?" Rose asked.

"Just watching. Listening. You know, general observation."

"Sure, says the one who doesn't understand the basics of time," she scoffed.

"Time doesn't exist like mortals think it does. It loops and twists like a ball of yarn made of more than one strand. It's not that difficult."

"Maybe in the Fade it looks like that, but I still don't buy it," she murmured. "Are the templars the new people you were talking about before?"

"Well, not really. There will be—"

"Oi!" one of the Crown's patrons called Rose over to the bar with a sloppy wave of his meaty hand. Her spirit retreated to the back of her head. "What you muttering about, elf? It's off-putting, you should know."

"Oh?"

"You're bad for business, even without the talking bit—"

Rose promised herself that she wouldn't get snippy if people pointed out the fact she was an elf, but this she was tired, it was late, and she was only a quarter finished with her shift. Day three on the job and she already lost count of the number of people who commented on her race. _Yes, ser, I know I'm an elf. No, ser, I didn't cheat anyone out of job. Yes, I know not many elves have jobs like this. No, I didn't get kicked out of my alienage._ Rose was at her wit's end. It was only a matter of time before she talked back.

"And you know _all_ about how business goes, is that it?" Rose propped her hands on her hips.

"You have a big mouth, elf."

"That's what they tell me."

"Back off," the spirit in Rose's head warns.

It was at this time that the other barmaid Sorcha arrived, a goddess among women. "Refill, ser?"

Rose slipped away, out from under the glowering looks of other patrons. She sequestered herself in the back storage room, and waited for her shift to end. "What am I going to do with myself?"


	7. Castiel 2

When Castiel woke up, the pain was worse, and he felt as if his blood _chugged_through his veins. Like soup with chunks in it. He was being carried, he soon realized, on a makeshift stretcher. He stared up at the cloud-covered sky, and felt a spark of anger. He wanted stars. If he was going to die out here, he damn well wanted to die under the stars.

"Almost there," Martha said from near his feet. She wasn't one of the Wardens carrying him, but she kept pace with them, walking alongside Castiel. "Do you need anything?"

His throat was dry, fire burning him from the inside out. He couldn't speak.

"Here," she pressed a waterskin to his lips.

"Thank you," he rasped when she drew away.

Martha replied with a sad smile. "I'm sorry you have to make this choice."

His eyes fell shut, and he nodded.

The Warden compound at Montsimmard had a spacious courtyard, with gardens and fountains maintained by the hired hands. A series of shouts followed Castiel and the Wardens' entrance. Castiel opened his eyes for a short moment to see a blocky stone building rising up behind battlement walls. Then, they were whisked inside, and Castiel tried to orient himself among all the murmuring voices and the sloshing ashes in his gut. A pair of Warden mage healers worked to knit his shoulder back together. Tendrils of spirit magic weaved into him, and it gave him a respite from the pain.

Martha was at his ear. "Castiel. We don't have much time left now. Our mages can only do so much. The Warden-Commander wants to know if you wish to undertake the Joining."

He turned his head to look her in the eye. "If I don't?"

Her eyes narrowed in a pained way. "You'll turn into a ghoul. Someone will have to kill you. I'm going to be honest and say not everyone survives the Joining. I was the only one of four who survived when I became a Warden."

Castiel paused, and found that he wasn't surprised by this new information. "The Joining, then," he agreed. Better a Warden with more time than a dead man without options. Better die now in an attempt to live and waste away.

"Very well." Martha rose to her feet, and squeezed his good shoulder for a short moment before leaving. Soon, the healers shuffled away, wiping his blood from their hands. Castiel was left alone, and waited for his fate in silence. Fire roared through his veins.


	8. John and Sherlock 2

The templar assigned to escort them to Amaranthine was about three seconds away from smiting Sherlock. John was equal parts amused and concerned—Ser Dimmock was easy to rile and had no clue what he was getting into when he asked Sherlock about his supposed elven heritage.

Sherlock didn't act phased by the question, and countered with something about Dimmock's mother, a sister of the Chantry, sworn to celibacy. "Divine intervention, I presume," he clipped. "How else could you be here?"

John's journal was open on his lap, and he somehow managed to scribble his thoughts despite the uneven road. _Day three since leaving Kinloch, Sherlock acts like someone half his age_, he wrote. _Still not sure what to think of him, charming as he is. The rudeness balances it out. Not sure how he knows some of the things he knows. No wonder Irving wanted him out._

John wasn't sure if Sherlock was a dangerous person. He heard that he was an amazing mage, that his grasp of magic was remarkable. What this didn't explain was why Sherlock went through the Harrowing so late. Only the most worrisome mages were delayed on that front, and so far John only thought of Sherlock as a bit mad. And not the overtly dangerous sort of mad. Not safe, but not someone on the brink of becoming an abomination. Someone who could get into a great deal of trouble if it suited him, certainly. John didn't think Sherlock cared to take the time to embroil himself in the affairs of other people. Not unless it was to prove a point.

Beyond mad, Sherlock was manipulative and rather inconsiderate. He'd taken over their wagon, casting papers, clothes and books everywhere. The last inn they stopped at received similar treatment. John found one of Sherlock's books shoved into his own pack that morning, and seriously wondered where Sherlock was getting all his stuff from.

Honestly, John didn't mind that much. Sherlock's mess was a nice change from the bare, clinical order of the tower. Sherlock had a way of making a room feel alive. There was something thriving about him, and John actually looked forward to working with him. Sherlock made things dynamic. John needed dynamic.


	9. Rose 3

It was an accident. It was dark. She wasn't familiar with the city yet. She was startled by a passing man in armor, and her guard slipped, and suddenly templars were crawling after her, swords drawn. They approached from the left and right, and she stumbled back against the Crown's outer wall. The bag over her shoulder slouched, and slipped to the ground.

The air was deathly still, and electricity jumped over Rose's bare skin in bright arcs of light. The templars moved in closer, armor clanking and scraping, and she began to gather her strength in earnest. Just across the way, the Chantry of our Lady Redeemer spiraled upwards, and when Rose looked at it, she never felt more abandoned.

Just as her hands crackled with bruise-purple lightening, her spirit shouted at her. "Don't!"

She stuttered into motionlessness, and the templars unleashed a cleansing wave of mana-killing energy. The alleyway went dark without the leaping tracks of electrical lighting. Rose bit back a cry, and stumbled to her knees. "Why?"

"You don't want to hurt these men," the spirit said. "Don't become what you are not."

So she didn't, and she was seized, under the light of the moon, just outside the Crown and Lion, with a half dozen passersby witness to her defeat.

When Rose was a little girl, she fell from some scaffolding in the Denerim alienage. It was an accident. She was young, and careless, unaware of her own mortality. Onlookers took her for dead, but when they approached her body, they found that they were wrong. She was not only alive, but whole and uninjured. A miracle, they said.

In truth, Rose did die that day. Her body was broken and destroyed, but just as her soul drifted through the Fade towards what was beyond, it was snagged back. Hands kept her from drifting too far. "Not yet," the owner of these hands said. He placed her back into her body, and fixed the tears, cracks and fissures.

She never asked for his help since, but she pleaded with him now, as the templars clasped her wrists in chains. "Do something."

"I can't. I'm so very sorry."


	10. Sam and Dean 2

Sam was laughing. A desperate, sickly laugh that really should only belong to old, bearded, battle-hardened warriors. He supposed he and Dean were close enough. That they made it out of Denerim in one piece was a great feat in itself, given the fact that Dean decided to get on the bad side of the Crimson Oars, and that they now stood just outside the gates to Vigil's Keep was a miracle. The sun was bright and cold, hovering overhead. It seemed a good omen if the past days of rain were anything to go by.

"The Maker loves us," Dean grinned, elbowing Sam a bit more roughly than necessary.

Just inside the entrance, a man wearing the Vigil's insignia on his breastplate greeted the brothers. "Welcome to Vigil's Keep," he said, and further introduced himself as the captain of the guard. Sam explained why they had come, and the captain nodded. "You boys have come just at the right time—Warden-Commander Brosca is heading to the city later today. You might have missed her."

They were led through the keep's sprawling courtyard, up a series of steps and into the keep itself. From there they went to a large throne room. Above, Warden banners hanging from the rafters and a large, circular hearth blazed at the center of it all, contributing both to the warm temperature and comfortable ambiance of the room. At the back were stairs leading to a simple throne.

"I thought throne room was just a name," Dean commented out of the side of his mouth. "They actually keep a throne in these places?" By 'these places' Dean meant Warden strongholds, Sam assumed.

"Warden-Commander Brosca is also Arlessa of Amaranthine," Sam mentioned in an undertone.

"Andraste's tits. She's nobility? Damn, the whole Hero of Ferelden thing definitely has its perks."

Sam couldn't disagree.

As they approached, the small figure reclining on the throne stood up. Warden-Commander Natia Brosca was tall for a dwarf, but that wasn't saying much at all with Sam and Dean in the room. They towered over her physically, but Sam felt very small in her presence. It was strange—he knew he and his brother were around the same age as the commander, but she seemed so much older, not in appearance but in demeanor.

Her skin was nut brown and she wore her dark hair in a simple bun at the nape of her neck. The style of it left her face clear, and seemed to emphasize the tattoos on her face—a dwarven C for casteless, and a network of thin geometric designs over her brow. The captain of the guard spoke with her briefly, then stepped to stand to her right.

Her shoulders were back, calm, and her hands were held behind her, resting on her tailbone. "Captain Lestrade says you boys want to join the Grey Wardens," Brosca said to them, eyebrows lifted in blatant appraisal. Sam swallowed against a nervous lump in his throat.

"That's right, ma'am," Dean replied. His arms were folded over his chest, but his tone was deferential.

Brosca didn't seem swayed one way or another. Sam took a small step forward. "We've fought darkspawn. All throughout the Southron Hills," he said.

Brosca's detached expression broke into a small grin. "Is that so? Do you have proof, O Great Darkspawn-Slayers?"

Sam and Dean exchanged pained looks. "Not so much," Sam admitted.

"But it doesn't matter," Dean cut in. "We can fight. We want to fight."

"Why?"

"They took our home, our family. They did the same to half the other people in Ferelden!" Dean said, tone aggravated. The question irritated him, Sam knew, because why wouldn't anyone want to fight darkspawn, after what they did? There wasn't a single person in Ferelden who hadn't been affected by the Blight.

"Dean," Sam said, voice soft. He looked back at the Warden-Commander. "Please, let us prove ourselves. We don't have anywhere else to go, ma'am."

"The Grey Wardens accept individuals based on their merit. Everything else is after the fact," she replied. Her eyes focused on Sam and Dean "Though, there are a few others here who are waiting to undergo the Joining ritual. Captain," she addressed Lestrade.

"Yes, Commander?"

"Alert Seneschal Garevel, and make sure these boys get a warm meal and a place to sleep. I want Oghren to test their skills in the morning," Brosca said.

"Of course, Commander."

"You boys have one shot. Be ready. Also, don't call me ma'am."


	11. Castiel 3

Darkspawn blood. They had him drink _darkspawn blood_. Images of the horde trampled through his head, clawing and gnashing. Disorganized and afraid and fleeing. But not yet. Not quite yet.

Castiel shuddered awake, a cold sweat dotted his brow, hands scrambling for purchase on bedsheets. Alive? Was he alive?

Martha sat on a stool by his bedside. She smiled as soon as she noticed he was awake. "Welcome," Martha said. "And congratulations." They were in a small antechamber, a hearth, desk and single bed the only things in sight. The floors and walls were unadorned.

He struggled to push himself into a sitting position. "W-What happened?"

"You're now a Grey Warden," she told him. "Come on, let's get you something to eat."

The idea was strangely enticing.

He hobbled through high-ceilinged hallways, leaning against the steadying hand Martha kept at his elbow. She told him about the stronghold, how many Wardens lived there, and some of the dynamics of the Wardens in Montsimmard. Apparently there were issues between the Circle and the Wardens over escaped mages receiving protection from the order. Castiel wasn't surprised.

They came to a long dining hall with a smattering of circular tables. Blood red light from the setting sun poured in through the high windows, and a few other Wardens were gathering for their evening meal. "We eat a lot," Martha laughed when Castiel's eyes went big at the sheer mass of food in the room.

His stomach gurgled. Strange. He wasn't used to being hungry. Senior enchanters at the White Spire often commented on his poor appetite. "Why?"

"No one's quite sure, but it is a ubiquitous trait among Wardens. Come on, let's find somewhere to sit."

Castiel thought he liked Martha before, but now he was sure of it as she piled his plate with food. Orlesian roasts, Fereldan puddings, Antivan wines, Rivaini stews—Castiel had never appreciated food so much in his entire life. "This makes me happy," he remarked to no one in particular.

"New Wardens often say that," Martha grinned.

They ate in companionable silence after, but soon Castiel's mind caught up with him.

"You're not Fereldan," he said to Martha.

"No. I'm from the Free Marches. Markham, actually."

"Why are you in Orlais?"

"I go where Weisshaupt points me," she smiled. "If they point me anywhere, that is. Politics. Anyway, I'm only here for a short while, then a group of us are going to Ferelden to help build up the order over there."

Before either could speak again, a few other Wardens joined them, and offered congratulations to Castiel and condolences to Martha for having to drag the new person around with her. She laughed, and claimed she didn't mind. Castiel hoped she was telling the truth.

"You're lucky, you know," Martha said to Castiel with a smile. "Usually only those with the best chance of surviving the Joining are allowed to try."

Castiel looked up from his bowl of stew and frowned.

"The Orlesian Commander of the Grey has a weakness for those in need," she explained. "He's allowed several blighted people to undergo the ritual, I've heard."

"Much to the First Warden's displeasure," said one bearded man.

The elf at the table scoffed. "He doesn't know what things look like here in the south."

"Anderfels snow must fill his ears," the bearded man replied.

"I wonder if he actually cares for Ferelden at all." The elf's words were surly and dismissive.

Martha made a sound of displeasure. "I wouldn't be going to Amaranthine if he didn't care."

Castiel asked, "Are new recruits being sent, too?"

"Of course."

"Will I be going with you?"

Martha shrugged. "They need mages. If you think you're fit enough to travel, then I'm sure you would be welcome."

"I imagine Kinloch Hold isn't sending many people," he commented, mostly to himself.

"Probably not. Good thing you're with us then," she smiled, but Castiel couldn't feel its warmth.


	12. Interlude--Natia

The Pilgrim's Path had been clear of threats for over six months now.

"I've kept the economy from collapsing. I've eliminated the most influential and bloodthirsty of my foes. Amaranthine prospers, but the Wardens are limping along like a sick nug, and everyone knows it but are too kind to say anything!"

Lestrade and Garevel listened to Natia, and watched her pace in a tight circle. She wore the evening like a gown, heavy and dark with shadows.

"Has anyone heard from Nathaniel?" she paused to ask.

"No, ser," Garevel said. "Nothing."

Natia stifled a sigh. "If he's dead, I'll kill him," she muttered under her breath. She was down to three Wardens, including herself, now that Sigrun had gone back to the Deep Roads and Anders faffed off to wherever he went. Natia swore to herself that if she ever saw that smarmy bastard's face again, she'd punch it so hard that the Fade would feel it. And then she'd tell him it was a damned fool move to go off and kill a templar spy instead of coming to her for help.

Everyone else was dead. Of course, it was no trouble keeping seven people and a dog alive during a sodding Blight, but ever since she arrived in Amaranthine, it seemed the luck of a duster began following her again.

Pilgrim's Path was no longer clear, since a series of darkspawn attacks. Reports flooded in from many other regions, each complaining of darkspawn treachery. House Helmi requested aid for Kal'Hirol. Nathaniel was still out in the field, though he should have returned three days ago. Oghren was drinking himself into an early death, though she wasn't sure he hadn't been doing that the whole time. And here Natia was, tired, alone, and wishing for another Blight, since it was something that actually brought be people together. Alistair was right about a few things on occasion.

"You are aware that no matter what their skill levels are, we will allow anyone who wishes to undergo the Joining, correct?" Natia asked.

"Are you sure? Normally—" Lestrade began to say.

"There is nothing normal about our situation. For too long have the Wardens been absent from Ferelden, and for too long have the darkspawn held this country in thrall, despite the fact that the archdemon died a year ago," she snapped.

"Yes, Commander," he replied.

"When should I begin preparing the ritual?" Garevel asked.

"Have it ready for tomorrow evening, please," Natia said, and began pacing again. "I'd rather watch them die sooner than later."


	13. John and Sherlock 3

The brutal murder of a bann occurred in Highever just hours before John, Sherlock, and Dimmock passed by. The city guards set up checkpoints along the Imperial highway, believing the murderer had fled the city. "We need to search your wagon," one of the said guards told them when they were stopped.

Dimmock nodded, "Of course. Whatever you need."

Sherlock dawdled inside the wagon, throwing papers here and there. John stood at the side of the road, wondering what Sherlock was trying to accomplish. If he was working to irritate the guards, then he was doing a fantastic job.

"Was the victim murdered in the city?" Sherlock asked.

The guard frowned. "I'm not at liberty to say," she replied.

"I assume they were. Probably somewhere well known, now that I think of it," Sherlock said, mostly to himself.

"You'll need to get out of the cart now, mage," the guard said.

After tossing about a few more papers and books, Sherlock hopped out over the side of the wagon. The trio idled nearby, and as soon as the guards said they could carry on, Sherlock turned away and began to walk. Towards Highever. John and Dimmock followed after him. "Where do you think you're going?" Dimmock cried.

"I'm going to the scene of the crime, of course. We can spend a day or two in the city, can't we? If the guard thinks they're going to catch the murderer by waiting on the road, then Highever should start worrying," Sherlock said.

"How do you mean?" Dimmock was flabbergasted.

"Well obviously the city guard is doing nothing for the city's safety," he replied.

"What are you planning?" John asked.

"The murderers are probably still in the city," Sherlock mused. "Do you know anything about the murdered bann?"

"Are you going to go after the murderers?" Dimmock squawked.

"One of the guards mentioned Bann Ceorlic, right? His family's lands border those of Gwaren," John said.

"Gwaren? But that's on the other side of the country. What would he be doing in Highever, of all places?" Sherlock wondered. He walked with his palms pressed together, as if in prayer.

"What does it matter? Nobility can do as they please!" Dimmock said.

"That philosophy certainly didn't do anything for Ceorlic, now, did it?" Sherlock sniped. "There's something else, but I can't quite remember—oh, yes. Right. Politics. Landsmeet. There was a civil war, wasn't there?"

"You're seriously asking me that?" John felt like smacking his forehead. "Ceorlic sided against King Alistair during the Landsmeet that basically ended the civil war."

"Well, that's one motive."

"People aren't going to be forgetting Loghain's hand in what happened at Ostagar anytime soon," John replied, voice dark. "Many of his allies rejected him right and left after the truth came to light."

Sherlock looked sharply at John, and opened his mouth, but then they both noticed that Dimmock was standing a few yards back. He had a look of hopelessness on his face. "We can't go to Highever," he stated. "I am to get you to Vigil's Keep as soon as possible, without any unnecessary delays!"

A sly smile crossed Sherlock's face, and John would have missed it if he would have blinked. "But Highever needs us. You're all about duty, aren't you?"

"Templars do not embroil themselves in matters that do not concern them."

John choked on laughter. "That's a good one."

"The guards are calling us!" Dimmock gestured towards the wagon.

"Deal with them, would you?" Sherlock drawled, and began walking again.

John wondered if Sherlock would make it out of this journey without a smiting.


	14. Sam and Dean 3

Her name was Jo, and she was an elf from the outskirts of Amaranthine. If her boasting could be believed, she was a wicked shot with her bow. Almost immediately after they met she and Dean argued loudly over whether or not a crossbow was a practical weapon in battle. Dean argued yes, holding his own crossbow close to his chest, and Jo argued no. Honestly, Sam was kind of sickened by the amount of flirting going on between them. Or he might've just been nervous over his future, hanging by a thread and a single morning of combat. Yes, probably that. Dean flirted with most women, why should it start bothering Sam now?

Jo wasn't the only Warden volunteer waiting for approval from Commander Brosca. The other prospect was Henry, a quiet Dalish elf who claimed he fought werewolves during the Blight. (Dean asked what kind of name Henry was for a Dalish elf. Henry said he was named after a human who used to trade with his clan. "A good man," he said, after which Dean backed off.) Luckily for Sam and Dean, Henry wasn't part of the clan that tried to attack them on more than one occasion when they got too close to the Brecilian Forest.

The four potential-recruits gathered outside the keep's front gate, and Oghren looked over them with critical eyes. Or maybe he was just hungover and irritated. Sam didn't know Oghren well enough to tell the difference. Not that he wanted to know the dwarf that well. Sam sincerely thought he'd smelled the worst of the Blight while out fighting darkspawn.

The early morning sun slanted over the keep's walls, but the air still held the night's chill. "Alright, you nughumpers, normally you'd have Nathaniel checking you out, since he's a repressed blighter, but he's off being stupid somewhere else. So you're stuck with me. Lucky you. You're going into the Deep Roads today," he announced.

Sam and Dean exchanged a glance, Henry shuffled his feet, and Jo cocked her hip in an unasked question.

"You need darkspawn blood for the Joining ritual. Get a vial of blood, and then come back," Oghren continued.

"Is this a competition?" Jo wondered.

"It is if you want it to be," he leered, words heavy with implications. "I'll be providing the prize."

Jo's expression didn't know what to do with itself. Ultimately, she settled for horrified and made a disturbed noise.

"Can we just go?" Dean growled.

"Don't get your knickers in a twist," Oghren waved him off and grunted in what could only be a universal 'let's go.'


	15. Rose 4

Rose stood on her tiptoes, straining to see through the small window at the top of her cell door. Sometimes she hated being an elf. She could only see the top of a templar's tow-colored head, and he seemed to be looking down at someone significantly shorter than himself. "She'll probably be killed," he stuttered. "And she had ample opportunity to hurt us, but she didn't."

"The last time I conscripted a mage, the idiot ran away a few months later," another voice stated, harsh. "Mostly because your damned order wouldn't leave us alone."

"It won't happen again. Not after what happened last time," was the quick reply.

"You are in no position to guarantee that."

There was a pause. "You said you wanted mages," the templar said, his words showing the first sign that he had a backbone.

The other voice sighed. "Everyone seems to know I'm desperate. Manipulative bastards, the lot of you."

"Sorry."

"Shut it. Do me a favor and get your captain."

"Yes, ser."

The fading clank of metal was all Rose could hear for a few moments, then the door to her cell swung open. A dwarven woman stood just outside, lockpick in hand and self-satisfied smile on her face. She wore simple leathers and had a set of daggers strapped over her shoulders. "Hello. I hear you're an apostate," she said.

"Oh, now there's an interesting one," Rose's spirit commented. She could tell he was excited.

"My name is Rose," she said, throwing a mental shush at her spirit. It was no good if he distracted her and made her look like a halfwit.

"Rose. I'm Natia Brosca, Commander of the Grey. I've come to conscript you into the Grey Wardens. Congratulations!" The dwarf grinned, and propped her fists on her hips.

"Very interesting!" the spirit said. "What do you say, Rose?"

"All right," Rose agreed.

"Brilliant!"

"It wasn't a question, but I'm glad you've agreed," the Warden-Commander said with a small smile.


	16. Sam and Dean 4

Their expedition into the basement of the keep was rather uneventful, until they reached the doors to the Deep Roads, held tight by some dwarven mason's mastery. A mechanism kept everything from getting in or out, and it made Sam wary at how carelessly Oghren opened the doors. He ushered them in, and locked them inside. Henry looked pale, and Jo pulled on a mask of confidence. Dean twitched, and glared at the tunnel walls, as if expecting them to start closing in on them.

They moved through the tunnels, attempting to be as silent as possible. Then, something ahead made a rumbling sound, and a trio of genlocks came barreling down towards them. Jo and Dean picked them off with clean efficiency, but more followed. Sam once thought that encountering darkspawn on the surface in the dead of night was a terrible and frightening thing. Underground combat was completely different, and proved everything he thought wrong. This was the darkspawn home ground. They had each and every advantage. On top of that, he had to worry about low-hanging ceilings and making sure he didn't hit one of his companions. There weren't a large number of darkspawn, but Jo and Henry seemed overwhelmed at the outset. They never fought darkspawn before, though both claimed they had seen the horde at one point or another.

Sam was the first to collect his vial of blood. Dean ribbed him about the prize Oghren would be giving him later, but before he could extend the joke, a pair of hurlock emissaries appeared. And then one disappeared. "Find it!" Dean shouted. "Take them down first!"

Sam weaved through the melee towards the remaining emissary. When he was within striking distance, he stumbled straight into a paralysis glyph. His body froze in place, and he could hear Dean shout, "Sammy, what the Void are you—?"

The emissary moved into Sam's space, and began conjuring some spell that would undoubtedly kill him. Blue and red lights flickered off of Sam's immobile face, and he wished he could squeeze his eyes shut. The emissary's rasping breath seemed too loud, and just as the spell reached its zenith, Henry appeared and slammed the emissary sideways with a great sweep of his shield. The spell dissipated, and Sam broke free from the glyph. He and Henry worked in tandem to kill the emissary, alternating attacks and parries.

"Just die already!" Henry shouted, voice cracking. He threw the emissary to the ground again with his shield. Sam finished by hacking its head with a single blow of his left-hand sword.

Dean had abandoned his crossbow and was attacking encroaching darkspawn with a saw sword. Jo stood behind him, firing shots past into the stragglers. The other emissary was nowhere to be seen; Dean probably took it down and spent the last of his crossbow bolts in the process. Sam and Henry joined the others and quickly decimated the remaining darkspawn.

The others gathered their vials of blood, and Dean looked over everyone with a furrowed brow. "Everyone all right?" he asked.

"We're fine," Jo said, and wiped her forehead with the back of her hand. Grime and sweat coated her face, and Sam felt as exhausted as she looked.

"Let's get out of here," Henry intoned.

"Right," Sam agreed.

Before they could turn to leave, Dean stopped Sam, his face pulled into worried anger.

"Why did you go after that emissary?" Dean demanded.

"You told me to!" Sam cried.

"No, I didn't," his brother rejoined.

Sam scowled. "Then why did I hear you tell us to kill it?"

Jo piped up. "I heard you say that, too. I was about head over, but Henry needed some backup. Warriors, you know."

"I was fine—" Henry began to say in a peeved tone.

"Henry was with me," Sam replied. "He helped me take out the first emissary."

"If Henry was helping Sam, then who was I—" Jo's hands clenched into fists. "And if Dean didn't say—"

A harsh silence fell, and a wary series of glances were exchanged.

"Hey, Sam," Dean said, carefully careless. "Remember those Chasind we met that one time?"

"From the Kocari Wilds, yeah."

"Said something about shapeshifters."

Sam looked at him sharply. "You don't mean—?"

"I think we're in over our heads," Jo announced. "We'll tell Oghren. Or Commander Brosca. They should know what to do."


	17. John and Sherlock 4

Sherlock was muttering about idiots and crime scenes. John was drinking an ale, and watching the people inside the city's tavern. He wasn't sure what they had just done, really, but it involved staring at blood stains on cobblestone and harshly questioning the intelligence of the constable. Needless to say, the man sent them away. Sherlock was not happy. John was amused, but also irritated at the unfinishedness of the day. At the end of the bar, one of the workers flirted with Dimmock, but he didn't seem to notice.

A woman with yellow corkscrewing hair sidled up to the bar behind John. Her blue eyes focused on Sherlock. "Ser, I think you best leave Highever," she said in an undertone.

"Why would I do that?" Sherlock studied her, head to foot. If he were anyone else, John would think he was being suggestive, but clearly he wasn't. "You do know I could have you and your accomplices caught in an instant, now that you've shown yourself?"

The woman's lips twitched with suppressed emotion. "I think you're bluffing."

"Would you like to find out?"

"Wait, she's the murderer?" John asked.

Sherlock didn't look at him, but said, "Someone she knows is. A friend, perhaps." The way he said 'friend' was rather perplexing. "I think she's here to protect said friend. She's from Denerim, originally, but has only gone back for business. What business? Something subtle. Something in the shadows. Her friend is likely in the same profession. They might be partners, though that's mere conjecture."

"How do you know this?" the woman gasped. A slow fury crept over her face.

"I don't know. I observe."

"What do you want?"

"To prove a suspicion. To put the pieces together."

"To what end?"

"To know why your organization arranged to have Bann Ceorlic killed, and why you made sure his death was publicized," he replied. "Everything is so very intentional, which I don't think is quite your style."

"And you just observed this as well?" The woman looked about ready to gouge Sherlock's eyes out with her fingers.

Sherlock carried on. "I visited the crime scene, of course. Saw something similar in Orlais with a notable chevalier who had ties with highwaymen. This isn't so different, is it?"

"You will want to leave it at that, mage," the woman replied. "For your own good."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes and leaned close to the woman. John was sandwiched between the two, and shrunk down into his seat. "I will get to the bottom of this," Sherlock half-snarled.

John's eyes turned upwards, and he noticed something lurking along the ceiling beams. He took a deep breath and pushed Sherlock back. "All right. Fine. You win," he said to the woman. "We'll go. I can't promise he won't be back, but we'll go now."

She blinked at him, as if just noticing him. "Very well," she bit out and with a last look at Sherlock, she disappeared into the crowd.

"Why did you do that?" Sherlock glared.

"Because there's an archer in the rafters who has an arrow with your name on it," John stated.

Sherlock looked up, and scanned the ceiling. His eyes went wide. "Oh."

"I'm good at healing, but I can't do anything for an arrow through the brain," John shrugged. He glanced up, and could see the archer move back into the shadows.

Sherlock stared at John, then looked away. "Um. Thank you." He fidgeted with his sleeve.

John shrugged again. "It's fine."


	18. Castiel 4

Orlesian Wardens traveled comfortably, with covered wagons and horses. Though there were only five other Wardens beside Castiel, they had two wagons and ample supplies for the road. Anyone passing by would know who they were by the argent and azure that decorated the caravan. Castiel felt conspicuous in his new Warden armor, but at least he was warm. He rolled his shoulder, hoping it would withstand the journey ahead. The Warden mages healed the damage, but phantom aches sprang up in the chilled Harvestmere air.

The night before, Martha asked if he was well enough to travel. He felt ready, but wondered if it was the truth. Severe injuries were a novelty for him, and he wondered if he was doing more harm than good. He did his best not to worry about it overmuch; he had more pressing things on his mind now.

While on the road to Amaranthine, Martha told Castiel about the biggest sacrifice Wardens made. That he had only thirty or so years left to live, before he would secumb to the taint. He was angry, but not at her. "If I hadn't been on the road that night," he said. "I wouldn't be here now." His life was ending and beginning at the same time, and he felt control spiraling out of his hands. Not that he had much to begin with anyway.

"Why were you on the road?"

"First Enchanter Edmonde at the White Spire wished to transfer another mage and me to Montsimmard. He thought our skills would best be put to use where the Knight-Vigilant's chokehold on us mages isn't so strong."

"Was it truly that bad? Would Montsimmard have been better?"

"The First Enchanter seemed to think so. I grew up in the White Spire. I know little else."

"Well, Montsimmard will have to do without you now."

"They've heard that I am now a Grey Warden?" he asked Martha.

"We sent couriers as soon as you woke up."

Castiel wondered how that news would be received. Certainly the Wardens would not be blamed for something beyond their hands? He thought about the other mage in the caravan, now dead. He didn't know her name, and part of him was glad of the fact. She was just another faceless Blight victim. And now, Castiel thought, so was he. Only he was alive to speak about it. He wasn't sure if he was the lucky one.


	19. Sam and Dean 5

In the evening, Warden-Commander Brosca returned with a new recruit in tow. The others were picking at their meals, except for Dean who invariably ate with gusto. The members of the keep guard sitting around seemed to know better than to talk to them. Sam wondered why, and he gave a pleading glance to Dean. His brother shrugged his shoulders, shook his head in an 'Void if I know what's going on' kind of way, and continued to toss flirtatious smiles Jo's way. The guards' silence made Sam uncomfortable, and Joining hung over him. It wasn't the first time he was going into something without any clue as to what would happen, but this time it seemed to matter the most.

Suddenly the commander and an elf appeared behind Henry, who startled and nearly toppled his cup off the table. Jo caught it in time before it fell.

"Rose, these are the other recruits. Henry, Sam, Dean, Jo. Everyone, this is Rose. She's an apostate but I don't care, so don't be an ass to her. She'll be with you for the Joining this evening," the commander said.

Rose gave the group a small wave, a strained smile on her face. She was a sturdy elf, far less waifish than Jo or Henry, and held herself in a way that made her seem wholly unafraid. Awkward in a new setting, maybe, but she seemed like someone ready to act at a moment's notice. Unsure, but not crippled by the newness of her situation. Maybe it was an apostate thing, Sam mused.

"Doesn't she need a vial of blood?" Dean asked around a mouthful of food.

Commander Brosca snorted. "That was just a test. Prospects who don't have the balls to be Grey Wardens chicken out as soon as we mention fighting darkspawn. We have all the supplies we need here. Once you're finished here, please meet me in the throne room."

With that, she turned on her heel and strode away. Dean's face was stuck in an expression of shocked frustration. "We did all that for nothing? Dammit."

Rose was left standing nearby. She shrugged and sat between Jo and Henry. "Hello," she greeted them with a smile.

"Nice to see another lady around these buffoons," Jo grinned.

"Hey," Dean objected.

"Shush. Finish eating. I want to go," Jo said. "Excited?" she asked Rose with a grin.

Rose shrugged. "Bit nervous, I suppose. I was conscripted, so it's not like I have much choice. Here is better than at the mercy of templars, right?"

Henry gave her an adamant nod in agreement. Figures a Dalish elf would have problems with the Circle. Sam wasn't surprised.

"Have you ever been inside the Circle?" Sam asked.

"Not at all," she replied. "Sounds like a bunch of rubbish, if you ask me. Besides, I've done well for myself, as least until recently." Rose's self-deprecating smile was still playful, and Sam figured she was one of those people who easily laugh at themselves. He appreciated that, and looked forward to fighting with her. He and Dean had never fought with mages before. It could be interesting.

Though Warden-Commander Brosca said the Joining could kill them, Sam didn't actually believe it was true. They way he, Dean, Jo and Henry fought in the Deep Roads—it felt right. They worked well as a team, despite the strange circumstances. They faced shapeshifting darkspawn, for the love of all things good! What could a little darkspawn blood do to them? Hope bubbled up, but burst in violent, decisive ways.

Henry and Jo seccumbed to the taint. It wasn't pretty, and images of them choking on bile and blood etched into Sam's memory. He should've known better than to think everything would be fine. Since when had his life been fine?

Dean looked at Sam, a grim expression on his face, but Sam could tell his brother was just as panicked as he was. What if—? Surely the Maker wouldn't be that cruel? Right? Sam didn't know what he would do without Dean, and didn't know what Dean would do without him.

Commander Brosca gave the chalice to Rose, and she took a deep, shaking breath before drinking. After a beat, her brown eyes turned a blank white, and she crumpled to the floor. No choking, no bile. Rose sprawled out, limp and unaware.

"Is she alive?" Sam blurted.

"Yes," the commander said with sad, relieved smile. It was then that Sam realized how real the commander was. Not just a character of legends, but a whole person, with a past and a future and thoughts. She wasn't a flat figure, but a tangible personality. Sam had so many questions for her, but then she passed the Joining goblet to him.

He exchanged another glance with Dean, and his brother's hands were clenched into white-knuckled fists. "I'll go first," he blurted, a fierce and frightened look in his eyes, and he snatched the goblet from Sam. He lifted the silver to his lips, and Sam felt like the world was screaming silently. The commander took the goblet from Dean, and an instant later he slunk to the floor like Rose. Sam heaved a sigh.

"Good," the commander intoned. "You're turn, Sam."

Sam drank, bitter blood seeped down his throat, and then his consciousness cracked into nothingness.


	20. Rose 5

Rose came to in a rush, startled out of unconsciousness by fleeting images and an ominous lump centered in her gut. The throne room's rafters above her head swam in her vision.

"That's not good," her spirit muttered, just as disoriented as she was.

"It is done. Welcome," Natia's voice said.

Rose blinked a few times before she sat up. The bodies Henry and Jo were already gone, and Sam and Dean were just showing signs of movement. "Three?" Rose intoned. She pushed herself onto unsteady feet.

"Better than at my Joining," Natia commented, face grim. She offered a welcome to the brothers as they woke fully. "Excellent. I'm glad you're here. Seneschal Garevel will take you to your rooms once you feel stable on your feet. If you find yourselves hungry—which you will—the kitchens will be more than happy to help. I'll speak with you all tomorrow morning. Get some rest."

While the brothers got to their feet, Oghren clapped Rose on the shoulder, nearly knocking her over. "Good on you, mage."

"Thanks," Rose muttered. "I think."

She watched as Oghren sidled up to Natia.

"Commander," Oghren said. "I gotta speak with you. The newbies came across something unsettling when they were in the Deep Roads today."

Natia frowned. "It must be something if you think it's unsettling. Tell me." The two dwarves ambled away, Natia with her brow pulled down in concern and Oghren gesturing wildly. Rose couldn't catch what they were saying.

"What did you see?" she turned to Sam and Dean.

"Sorry, what?" Sam asked. He had the heel of his right hand pressed to his temple. He squinted at Rose in the flickering firelight, as if her words were coming to him from across a great distance. His other hand rested on Dean's shoulder, like he was making sure his brother was still there. Dean didn't seem to notice.

"Maker, I feel like I have the mother of all hangovers," Dean groaned, and rubbed his forehead. "But at least we made it, huh, Sammy?" The words were triumphant and regretful at the same time.

"He's the sort of person to blame everything on themselves," the spirit remarked, tangential.

"Oghren said you saw something strange in the Deep Roads," Rose pressed, ignoring the extra commentary.

"Damn shapeshifter, that's what," Dean grumbled.

"What?" Rose and her spirit said at the same time, though Sam and Dean couldn't hear the latter.

"A darkspawn emissary shapeshifted into Dean and Henry." Sam winced when he mentioned the elf's name.

"Shapeshifting exists?"

"You're the mage," Dean replied.

"I'm not formally trained. I can hold my own, though."

"I'm sure you're fine," Sam assured her. "But, yeah, it looks like there are shapeshifters among the darkspawn."

"That's a bit unusual," the spirit muttered.

Rose frowned. "That's not good news. What are we going to do?"

Dean opened his mouth to reply, but Seneschal Garevel's arrival cut short the conversation. He chatted with the new Wardens in a no-nonsense tone, weaving his way towards the east side of the keep. "The keep guard stays in the barracks," he explained. "Wardens stay in the what used to be the guest wing of the keep, back during its Howe days."

Sam asked something about the history of the keep; Dean made a noise of fond irritation. Rose's spirit was mumbling something about nobility and galas, but Rose couldn't make heads or tails of his random notes. Her head ached, and her gut felt hollow and gnawing.

"Sam and Dean, you'll be sharing a room. Rose, you'll get a bunkmate when more Wardens arrive. If any of you have problems with the arrangements, bring complaints to Commander Brosca. Men's rooms are on this floor," the seneschal continued, leading them down a many-doored corridor. "The stairs at the end of the hall lead to the women's quarters on the second floor."

"Men and women? What about the others?" the spirit wondered. Rose gave him a mental shrug.

—

To her surprise, Rose's room was half occupied already. The rectangular space had two beds against opposite walls, two desks, and two floor-to-ceiling wardrobes. One half of the space was bare, but the other wardrobe was partially open, and full of robes and other articles of clothing. The bedsheets of the lefthand bed were rumpled, and the drapes were tied back with a bit of twine. On the desk was ink and quills, as well as a silver bowl with a few green gemstones inside it. A water-damaged journal lay open, face-down, as if its own was called away in the middle of reading.

Rose reached out to pick it up, curiosity piqued.

"Velanna, a Dalish elf, lived here," Natia said from the door.

Rose jumped and pulled her hand back when she spoke. "Where is she now?"

"She went missing during the darkspawn siege on the keep," Natia stated, a frown creased between her eyebrows. "I wanted to move her things, but my lieutenant said her things should be here for her when she gets back."

"Is she coming back?"

"I don't know. One can hope," Natia said. "For now, you're free to her clothes. I want to see her face if she comes back and you're wearing her stuff."

"Alright," Rose replied, uneasy.

Natia smiled. "I'm glad you're here. The keep's been a bit empty without other Wardens. If you need anything, let me know."

"I will. Thanks."


	21. John and Sherlock 5

Highever was miles behind. Sherlock and John sat in silence while Dimmock scolded them. Sherlock had his nose in a book. John thought about the woman in the bar. There was something very deadly about her, and he wondered if he and Sherlock would be targets. The idea didn't frighten him as much as he knew it should have. He'd never seen Sherlock in a fight, but he figured they could take on any serious threat.

What interested John more than anything was Sherlock's ability to know things, just by looking at them. John was a mage; he knew magic. What Sherlock could do was different. It was rather fantastic.

"I'm sure you have questions," Sherlock remarked, as if to the air itself. He glanced briefly at John, then turned back to his book.

Dimmock sputtered into a moody silence. The look on his face reminded John of how some apprentices looked when they received homework.

"You're from Orlais?" John asked.

"Yes."

John accepted this answer, though Sherlock had no accent and seemed pretty Fereldan.

"Then why are you here?"

"The White Spire has much to be desired. There are one too many fanatics among the templars there," his response was dry.

John fought off a frown. "You said you saw something similar to the murder in Highever in Orlais."

"I did. The head of a prominent chevalier family was killed in his sleep."

"Did you figure that one out?"

Sherlock's lips twitched. "There was very little to go on. Between family members and household hand mucking about, all solid evidence was either damaged or lost."

"But you think they're connected."

"Yes."

"You said the woman wasn't working alone. How did you know that?"

"Same way I know that you were at Ostagar, but instead of fleeing back to the Circle like other mages, you went to stay in Denerim. Likely to figure out where next Fereldan forces would fight the darkspawn. You remained in Denerim for the last leg of the war, partially out of duty—otherwise why would you have ever returned to the Circle? You're a duty oriented person. But you also stayed in Denerim because you reconnected with family you haven't seen since childhood."

John blinked a few time. "How could you know that?"

"I don't know. I observe."

"Sure, but how?"

"Your staff. It's not Circle-made. I've seen a few like it, all from a certain craftswoman in Denerim. You bought it at the Wonders of Thedas, correct? And then there's your ring. It's nice. A step above the rest of your attire. You don't seem like the kind of person to own superfluous thing, nor to buy one, so it was a gift and holds sentimental value. I might say you've had it for a long time, but there is no tan line on your finger, which suggests newness. The inscription on it contains your family name, meaning it was a gift from a family member."

John took a deep breath. "Fantastic," he said with a smile.

"Excuse me?" Sherlock frowned.

"That was amazing. Remarkable."

Sherlock didn't look like he knew how to react. "Most people don't say."

"Then what do they say?"

"'Sod off.'"


	22. Castiel 5

Castiel was harrowed at an earlier age than the rest of his peers. He never figured out why, but to the surprise of most, he passed through the ordeal no worse for wear. Afterwards, he tended to stray away from the spirit school of magic, and cemented himself in primal and elemental magics. Fire and lightning made more sense than the capricious whims of the Fade. He didn't trust spirits.

Three days from Amaranthine, Castiel found himself deep in dreams. But something was off. This wasn't a normal dream. It felt too distant and too close at the same time—too real to actually be real. He observed his surroundings, a frown at the corners of his mouth.

He was in a room, one of the rooms of the White Spire. A study room, but all the tables and desks and bookshelves were gone. At the center of the room was a short figure dressed in black mage robes. It didn't have a face.

"Someone's far, far from home," the spirit said in a sing-song tone. "Poor thing, you don't know what you've gotten himself into, do you?"

"I am confident in my abilities," was Castiel's stiff reply. He tried to leave the characterless room, but the doors were locked.

The spirit cackled. "You seriously think that's going to work? This may be your mind, but it's my home turf."

"I don't understand," Castiel muttered to himself. He turned around, and the spirit stood only inches away from him. It was no longer faceless, and its eyes were dark, like pools of black. Its lips twisted into a facsimile of a smile. Its fingers circled around Castiel's neck, and began to squeeze.

"You will, my dear."

—

Castiel woke up panicked, twisted in his blankets. He clawed his way out and scrambled to his feet, chest heaving. The night was quiet, and just starting to show signs of an oncoming autumn chill. The other Wardens were either asleep in their bedrolls or sitting around the campfire. Martha was with the latter, and rose to her feet when she saw Castiel. She approached him like she might a wild animal. She put a hand on his shoulder. "You alright, Castiel?"

He nodded, throat tight. "I'm fine."


	23. Interlude--Lestrade

Natia Brosca was a mixture of things, the ends of a spectrum quashed into one persona. She flowed easily from uncouth casteless to diplomatic arlessa in a matter of seconds, or, if the situation called for it, could maintain both at the same time. She wore Dust Town on her skin, but carried a hero's heart in her chest.

One thing that never changed about her, however, was her unyielding loyalty. Lestrade respected her for many things, but her loyalty was her best trait.

"Commander," he knocked on her open study door.

Natia was sitting _on_ her desk, legs folded into a pretzel. Her elbows rested on her knees, and in her hands was clasped an official-looking piece of paper. There was an unimpressed expression on her face as she read. It was likely some letter from an overly self-entitled bann. Natia had little time for those types, let alone this late in the night. Candlelight played off the underside of her face, deepening the shadows and hollows in her face. "Yes, Greg? Come to save me from the drivel that is paperwork?"

"I seriously doubt you of all people need saving," he quipped. "I came to tell you that Lillith said she saw Lieutenant Howe yesterday while coming back from trading in Denerim."

Natia looked at him with sharp eyes. "She spoke with him?"

"No. Just saw him heading towards the Wending Woods," Lestrade said.

"Damn it," she sighed. "I have a half dozen new Wardens from Orlais and a battlemage from Kinloch arriving here within the week. I doubt the Orlesians will be happy if I'm not there to greet them. I won't be able go after Nate myself. That bastard. He needs a good kick in the head. Again."

He wanted to help in this; where some commanders might dismiss a single missing person as a deserter or dead, Natia didn't have to think twice about wanting to find Nathaniel. The people around her were her friends as well as her colleagues. She didn't leave people behind if she could find another way. "You can send the new Wardens," Lestrade suggested.

"Considering it, but I'm not sure how much good it would do. Nate's a great tracker; if he doesn't want to be found, he won't be. Something big must've happened if he's going off on his own," she said, and scooted off her desk. "I'd send Oghren, but he's about as subtle as a bronto in a glassmaker's shop, and I wouldn't want him going on his own. Is Lillith sure?"

"She swore by her father's grave."

"Did she see anything else strange on the road?" Natia began to pace.

Lestrade half-shrugged. "The darkspawn sightings have gone down in the last week or so, but that's not saying much, is it?"

Natia gave him a humorless smile. "It's not saying much at all."

Lestrade watched her pace. He'd been watching her pace for months, ever since he became captain of the guard. He didn't envy her position.

She paused, and looked at him with exacting eyes. "Do you think they're ready?" she asked.

"The new Wardens? They may be a bit untrained," he allowed, "but I think they're capable."

Natia nodded. "I understand. I'll let you and Garevel know when I make a decision. Dismissed."

Lestrade inclined his head, and left the room. He could hear the sound of Natia's boots as she began to pace again.


End file.
